by Don Schecter
In June ’88, weighing about one hundred twenty pounds after a final week in the hospital, Danny’s body gave up fighting. I handled the funeral and a small gathering afterwards. Everyone hugged and cried, and we all parted friends. Three months later, after the grieving process had time to run its course, and Danny’s affairs had been settled, the family attitudes shifted.
“You know, Russ, Danny’s house is worth quite a lot of money, and Danny’s brothers and sisters could use some of it. We hope you’ll be thinking of moving on soon.”
Three weeks later, a policeman came to the door and handed me an eviction notice.
Danny’s relatives were standing in the driveway watching me go. I was hurt, very hurt.
That I had nursed Danny was forgotten; it didn’t mean a thing to them anymore.
Everything was dollar signs now. But I had been the stupid one to overlook our legal situation during the lengthy time of crisis. With no recourse, I gathered my things and left. I had arrived with suitcases in a snazzy silver convertible. I left the same way, with the addition of the HIV virus I carried with me.
And so it seemed a perfect time to drive off into the sunset and clear my head. I knew exactly where I was going: to Atlanta where Dr. Fred and Jerry lived. Dr. Fred had answers to questions I needed answers to.
Suburban America is the same all over. Beyond climate which produced some differences in vegetation—kudzu covered Atlanta’s tree-lined highways—better neighborhoods there looked pretty similar to better neighborhoods in Trenton. I had telephoned ahead, told Jerry of Danny’s death, and they invited me to their beautiful home to relax a few days. We sat nude in the Jacuzzi with a couple of gin-and-tonics, and managed not to say a meaningful word for a while. I was dark and furry, Fred was blond and fuzzy-chested, Jerry was smooth as a baby’s butt. We could have been an ad for either gin or hot tubs in the weekly gay tattler, but Dr. Fred knew I wasn’t there for my health.”
“So tell us, Russ, why did you drive in this direction?”
“There are a couple of things I need to clear up. I think you can supply the answers.”
“Like what?” He lowered his eyes to sip from his glass, but I could sense he knew where I was heading.
I just came out with it. No anger; just curiosity. “Merv knew Danny had AIDS because you tested him and annotated his chart. I want to know why you did that without Danny’s permission—you knew he didn’t want to be tested—and if you knew he was positive, why in heaven didn’t you warn me before I moved in with him?”
In Fred’s eyes I could see the worry of an escaped felon who lived a law-abiding life, fearing someday his past would catch up with him. He took another sip from his glass and said, “Jerry, please turn the bubbles off; this is going to take some serious conversation.” Jerry adjusted the switches behind him and the tub went still. The whole world went still. Even the crickets stopped chirping. There was a long silence and then Fred began to speak in a soft but steady voice.
“Your second question is actually easier to answer than your first. A doctor isn’t in the business of directing the social side of his patients’ lives. If I had told you, you might have confronted Danny, which could have led to breaking up, or making no difference at all to both of you, or filing a lawsuit against me. But I did what I could, based on the knowledge I had. I encouraged you in no uncertain terms to have only safe sex until you were both tested. I didn’t believe I could interfere more than that.”
“But what you did was illegal…I don’t think you’re the kind of doctor who stupidly leaves himself open like that. Why’d you do it?”
“My practice was gay; my patients were ailing. Not many wanted to be tested, even when I suggested their symptoms indicated AIDS.
“I was treating only symptoms, knowing it was useless because I couldn’t prescribe expensive medications for a disease I only suspected they had. I’d patch them up here, and they would come down with something there. It was like trying to fix a leaky roof by catching water in pots and pans.
“In those days, struggling every night with the right thing to do, the Hippocratic Oath seemed very hypocritical to me. I had a choice: test without permission, and then properly treat those infected with HIV; or continue to treat symptoms and watch my patients die of an undiagnosed disease. Medicine had run afoul of the law…it was a new area; there were no precedents.”
Jerry interrupted. Clearly he had shared in the decision-making process. “And it wasn’t easy, Russ. Fred lost too many nights agonizing over the dilemma. He was damned no matter what he did, and it took its toll. All that stress and tension, the constant anxiety of carrying in secret the knowledge of which of his patients was infected, led to a first, and then a second heart attack. It was killing him; I knew I had to get him out of that practice. It became a life and death situation for us.”
Fred continued while I remained a rapt listener. “Danny came to me with petty complaints, one after another. I begged him to get tested but he was adamant; so I made the decision to test him without his knowledge. He was positive, and it allowed me to treat the real cause, not just the symptoms. Once I had a foot in the water, I decided to have every blood sample I collected for routine checkups tested, yours among them. It drove me nuts trying to decide what to do—and I’m sure there were situations similar to yours I knew nothing about.
“Did I have the right to play God? I was there to make you well, not to provide spiritual guidance. As your friend and doctor, I pressed you as hard as I could to make the smart decision; when you refused, I pressed you equally hard to take precautions.”
“But in a monogamous relationship…I’m surprised we kept on using condoms at all…surely, sooner or later, there would be a slip.”
“That was beyond my purview; I believed I had done enough—all I reasonably, ethically could.”
There was a long pause as they waited to see how I was digesting the information. I stared straight ahead; I couldn’t look directly at Fred’s eyes as I slowly said, “I just can’t get over the fact that you let me walk into the lion’s den without a warning. You could have prevented my conversion…”
“I wasn’t a marriage counselor. I would have been further off base if I had tried. I’m convinced of that now.”
Jerry interjected, “What would you have done, Russ? How would you have handled things differently? Put yourself in Fred’s place.”
I was stuck. I had no answer because there were no answers. “So you got out of Dodge, so to speak.”
“My survival demanded it. I turned my practice over to a man who wouldn't hesitate to tell the truth, and wasn’t liable to go to jail for it.”
“They could still come after you…”
“They could; but so far you’re the only one. Do you want to put me in jail for my crime?”
The crickets started up their chirping again. “No, there was no crime. I see your dilemma—I wouldn't have wanted to be in your shoes—and you see mine. But you had more than me to worry about. I forgave Danny for making me positive, because he didn’t know. I can forgive you because I see now this wasn’t about me, or us. We fell victim to a much larger set of circumstances.
“How are you faring, by the way?” Fred inquired.
“Sound as a dollar. Fit as a fiddle. Other than the handful of pills I take every day, I hardly know I have an infection. Merv hooked me up with a program at Johns Hopkins and I’m their poster boy. I’m not going to die of AIDS; I’m going to live with HIV— happily and productively.
“What are you doing now?” I asked Dr. Fred.
“Promoting knowledge in the community. Things are so different these days. Men get tested every six months; there’s a mobile van or clinic on every corner in gay Atlanta. Men get tested a second time after a six-month waiting period before they move together. We’re getting the story out. I see lots of hopeful signs.”
I stayed with Fred and Jerry for three days. I felt reborn. As I drove back to Trenton, I found I had a new purpose. I was
eager to get involved in the fight. I was a lucky one, and I damn well wanted to make sure the same thing didn’t happen to anyone else— patients or doctors.
His Fathers’ Advice
Sam Conner was staring at Pat Stern’s butt in the shower. Practice was over for the afternoon and the two seventeen-year-olds were sloughing off grime from a field softened by a week’s rain, amidst the whole team of laughing, wisecracking, naked boys their age.
Suddenly, Sam was showering in silence as the enormity of the thought that had just struck him blocked out all sound. I’m staring at Pat Stern’s butt!
Sam watched the way the water rivulets ran over the curves of Pat’s cheeks, diverted in their path by the dimples in his buttocks. He noticed the pressures of the rounded globes against each other; the way the water glued Pat’s hair against his skin; how the line of his muscular back slipped sinuously down toward his ass, became indistinct on the small of his back, and then reappeared as it nose-dived into the crack.
CRACK! Sound slammed against Sam’s ears. What the hell am I thinking? What am I doing? Sam shook his head clear under the shower spray, his fingers plugged in his ears.
“What are we doing tonight, Picasso?” Pat shouted above the din.
“I’m bushed,” Sam yelled back. “Gotta study trig some more. Where are you off to?”
“I’m taking Linda to a flick. Won’t Carolyn miss you?
“She’s got a paper to write for Mr. Carter. She told me to study trig. You and I both need to study trig.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got needs in front of that one!” With a big grin on his face, Pat grabbed his crotch and waved his sex organ at Sam.
They moved to the lockers, dried, and dressed rapidly. Sam caught a glimpse of Pat’s bare rear disappearing into his blue jeans. He wondered if he should leave his underwear at home from now on. “Have fun tonight, Romeo.” Sam waved as he left the locker room.
“Will do ’er. Get that trig down…so you can teach it to me.” Pat laughed and went back to tying his laces.
At home, Sam found his father browning cubes of pork in a Dutch oven. He opened the refrigerator, poured himself a tall glass of milk, and went over to the stove. Jerry Conner turned his head to his son and they gave each other a peck on the lips.
“How’d it go, son?”
“Practice? Good. Pat and I worked well together. Game tomorrow’s in the bag.” Sam kicked a chair back and sat down with one leg raised on the kitchen table, careful to dangle his shoe off the edge. “Dad, we gotta talk. Got time?”
“Always.” Jerry transferred the browned meat to a paper towel and went about sautéing garlic, onions, and carrots in the pan juices. “What’s up, guy?”
“I was looking at Pat Stern’s butt in the shower this afternoon.” He waited for the information to sink in.
Jerry looked around. “What’s wrong with Pat’s butt?”
“Nothing. Just the fact that I was looking at it.”
“Sam, I’m a little mystified; give me a clue, huh?” Jerry stirred the pot vigorously.
“Dad, I was looking at a guy’s butt!”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong?…Dad, what is wrong with that is that I was seeing it. And…and…I guess I was admiring it. That’s what’s wrong.”
Jerry thought he had defused this conversation years ago. He now realized he’d been optimistic. A gay father living with a lover who was only ten years older than his son had played out this conversation in advance—many times, with many alternative scenarios.
Jerry felt himself fully prepared. “And what conclusions are we drawing today, Sam?”
“Dad, I may be gay.”
Without missing a beat, Jerry drained the fat from the pot, replaced the meat, and added broth. He slipped the cover over the stew and put it in the oven before answering.
“How do you suppose Carolyn will take that news?” he asked.
“Carolyn? How the heck should I know? I haven’t told her yet.”
“Do you think she suspects?”
“Hell, no! How could she? Our sex is so hot, it…”—Sam searched for an apt comparison—”it’s like nuclear meltdown.”
“Q.E.D. You are not gay,” his father said.
“But…but what about Pat?”
“Sam. Good advice from your father. Go out with Carolyn tonight and have a good time.”
“Can’t tonight. Carolyn’s got a paper to do and I need to get trig down for the test on Monday.”
Jerry thought a moment. “You were going to a picnic with Carolyn on Sunday, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, we planned that a while ago.”
“Here’s a bright idea. Skip the picnic, go out tonight instead.”
“Trig, Dad. You must not have heard me.”
“I heard; now you obey. There’s no way you’re going to concentrate on math when you’ve got something on your mind. Go out with Carolyn tonight, have fun, and hit the books on Sunday.”
A car pulled up in the driveway.
“Steve’s home, Sam. Better wash up.”
Sam, lost in conflicting thoughts, didn’t move. The door opened. Steve, a head taller than Jerry and even broader than Sam, walked through the kitchen sorting the mail and slapped Sam on the shoulder.
“Hi, Picasso, why so glum?”
Jerry answered for his son. “He’s concerned over Pat Stern’s butt. He may be gay.”
“Pat?”
“No, Sam.”
“Ohh-kay.” Steve whistled a short, sharp note between his teeth and tossed the letters on the counter. “Well then…anybody interested in a drink?”
“Yeah, I think I could use one,” Jerry answered.
“Picasso?”
“No thanks, milk and scotch don’t work for me.”
Steve poured two scotches on the rocks and handed one to Jerry, puckering his lips in a silent hello kiss as he did so. Then he seated himself across from Sam, took a sip and said, “So, young son, what’s all the hubbub about Pat’s rump?”
“Nothing much. I just found myself admiring it in the shower after practice. I was following its lines and neat curves.”
“Was it turning you on?”
“Well, I sort of got lost for a moment, scrutinizing it. It was so…so…callipygous.”
“Calli-what?”
“It’s a word we learned in art class today. It’s a description of the beauty of Greek statues, like when you say they have shapely buttocks.”
Jerry turned to the sink and started rinsing lettuce so Sam couldn’t see the smile of relief on his face. “Then it’s possible that your artistic eye was doing this close examination of Pat’s behind because your art teacher brought it to your attention. Or, as an artist, do you intend to draw only female nudes for fear you might like what you see?”
Sam scowled. “Dad, I could be gay. They say it’s in the genes.”
“Take it from one who knows, you’re not gay.”
“I don’t see how you can be so sure. You were married, and had me, and you’re sure as hell gay. Steve’ll go to the mat for me on that one.”
Steve twirled his fingers in the air. “Yea, verily. And hallelujah!”
Jerry said firmly, “There never was a time in all the years I was married to your mother that I wasn’t concerned about my sexual orientation. I don’t see that with you.”
“Well, OK. I catch your drift. I’ve never doubted for a millisec that my urge is for girls.…Still, today…”
“I rest my case.” Jerry started to throw together a salad. “Dinner in thirty minutes,” he declared with the finality of a defense lawyer who had just demolished a witness for the prosecution. “Sweetheart, will you set the table, please?”
Both men looked up expectantly.
“Young sweetheart,” Jerry corrected himself. “But first wash up.”
Jerry was satisfied that Sam left the room with a considerably lighter heart than when he entered. “Got through that one,” he muttered to St
eve.
“Must be tough on a teen like Sam,” Steve answered, “separating what’s inside of him from what he’s surrounded with.”
“Confusing at times, but not unmanageable. All he’s really got to do is learn to reject the heterosexual model as the only valid experience. Then what goes on here is like everything else; something we do because we’re us, not something he has to imitate. Gay kids from hetero homes have the same problem. That’s what parents are for—to help their children through the maze of possibilities and seeming contradictions.”
The three men talked football at dinner, a little about the Dolphins, a lot about Sam’s team, the Bengals. Pat Stern entered the conversation like a wide receiver should, with no further comment on his posterior.
“Did you call Carolyn, Sam?”
“Yeah, Dad, thanks. That was a good idea. She didn’t feel much like doing her paper tonight, anyway….I’d better go. Steve, trade you dishes tonight for tomorrow. Deal?”
“Gotcha covered, Sam. Have fun.” Steve waved a hand in the air.
As Sam left the room, his father called after him. “And Sam, a further word to the wise. Don’t discuss Pat’s butt with Carolyn.”
Sam came back in. “Why not? Doesn’t she need to know?”
“Listen to Poppa, son—I’ve never steered you wrong. Women have this tendency to think they can save men from homosexuality. Trouble is, even after you’re an old married couple, she’ll never forget; she’ll still be trying to win you over. Don’t lay that kind of burden on her with such flimsy evidence. Let’s see how it goes for a while. You’ve got time to discuss it, if there’s anything there to discuss.”
“OK, Dad. I’ll be cool.”
In a moment, the door slammed, Steve and Jerry heard the car start up. As it pulled from the driveway, Steve moved his chair close to Jerry’s.
“I’ll do the dishes in exchange for my regular hug and kiss,” he said.
